Three years out of Nantucket with a hold half-full of oil, And a crew of forty shadows worn down by the salt and toil. I’m the man who keeps the ledger, but I don’t use ink or pen, I carve the names in ivory of the ones we’ve lost since then. A whale-tooth is a heavy thing, it’s cold and smooth and white, The perfect place to bury men who vanished in the night. Old Davis went in Tuesday when the block-and-tackle snapped, Now he’s just a jagged line in a piece of bone I’ve wrapped. [Verse 2] The Captain thinks I’m sketching out the flukes and the harpoon, Or tracing out the phases of a bloody, Southern moon. But I’m etching out the jawlines and the squint of every eye, Of the boys who learned too early just how deep the waters lie. The "deep-six" doesn't have a stone, it doesn't have a mark, Just a mile of heavy pressure and a cold and quiet dark. So I sit beside the blubber-lamp and I work the needle deep, Giving every ghost a little bit of bone on which to sleep. [Verse 3] But the teeth are running out now, and the bone is getting thin, And I’m looking at the ivory that’s tucked beneath my skin. I saw the Cooper’s face today, he fell beneath the gale, And I realized that the ledger is a thing that’s bound to fail. The sea is vast and hungry, and it doesn't keep a count, It doesn't care for names or for the heavy, blood amount. I’m carving out a census for a city in the silt, Built on rusted anchor-chains and a mountain-load of guilt. [Verse 4] I looked at my own bunk-post, it was polished by my hand, The only piece of timber left that’s drifted from the land. I started carving "Silas" near the bottom by the floor, Just in case the blubber-hook comes knocking at my door. It’s a strange and lonely hobby, trying to make the spirit stay, In a piece of dead-man’s trophy that’ll eventually decay. We’re just a list of scratches on a piece of drifting grit, Waiting for the ocean-floor to come and finish it. [Verse 5] The lookout gave the signal, there’s a spout upon the bow, And the deck is getting busy with the "when" and with the "how." I tucked the tooth inside my vest and I grabbed my heavy coat, With a dozen different faces rattling inside my throat. If the boat goes over sideways and the water fills my lungs, The ledger’s going with me to the place of silent tongues. Just a piece of carved-up ivory sinking to the bed, The only honest record of the forgotten and the dead

The Ivory Census